Miss Buddha (79 page)

If she were that incompetent, suggested
others, how can she possibly be believed.

Also, according to the majority of media
opinion, the outcome of the trial had become a foregone conclusion:
the evidence was unequivocal. Surely, this young lady was guilty as
charged. Only The Guardian reserved judgment until the case had
been fully tried, which would obviously include Miss Marten’s
defense as well, which was, the paper reminded its readers, yet to
come.

::
131 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

The following morning saw a second coup from
the prosecution. Otto Jones—by what arm-twisting, or calling in by
what favors, is hard to imagine—called to the stand Roscoe Flynn,
the seventy-two-year-old yet still strikingly handsome—and he knew
it, too—Treasury Secretary of the United States of America.

“Sir,” Jones began. “You are familiar with
the testimony of Mister Anderson?”

“Yes, I am,” said Flynn, partly to Jones and
partly to one of the cameras.

“Have you had the time to study and digest
the figures?”

“I have been thoroughly briefed.”

“How do you view these reports? What do they
tell you?”

“How do I view them? There is only one way
to view them. This economy is headed for disaster.”

“Is that not too strong a word?”

“Is
disaster
too strong a word, is that
the question?” Asked, one would assume, for effect, the good
Secretary playing to a world-wide audience.

“Yes.”

“Strong or not, that’s the correct word.
That’s the word you use when the legs are cut off from under you
and you no longer have a way of moving forward. Disaster.”

“And the cause?”

“Sitting right there,” said Flynn, first
glancing at, then pointing to, Ruth Marten.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure.”

“And what, if anything, can be done about
this? Can this disaster be averted?”

“It can. And the remedy is simple.”

“What is that remedy?”

“People need to wake up. Pure and simple.
They are being sung to by this little siren, and they’re all taken
in by her inglorious promises. People need to smell the coffee and
wake the hell up.”

“Mister
Flynn,” said Judge Moore. “Not in my court
room.”

“Sorry, your honor,” said Flynn.

“Why is it,” said Jones. “Please explain to
the jury, if you would, why is it that this radical drop in
consumption has such an impact on our economy?”

“Well, that’s just plain common sense,” said
Flynn. “The health of any economy is measured by how much it
produces. Production. Manufacturing. Goods and services. Now, if no
one is buying what you make or the services you offer, you’ll soon
go broke. Simple as that. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see,” said Jones.

“When you stop consuming, you stop buying.
And when you stop buying, we’ll stop producing. And if we stop
producing, well, we will soon all starve to death.”

“How soon?” asked Jones

“A handful of years,” said the Treasury
Secretary.

“A handful of years,” said Jones, holding up
his right hand, fingers splayed. “As in five?”

“As good a number as any.”

“And there’s an actual risk of that
happening?” said Jones.

“There’s a real risk of that happening,”
said Treasury Secretary Flynn directly into the camera.

“No further questions,” said Jones.

Judge Moore looked over at Ruth, who softly
shook her head.

Moore looked back at Jones. “Call your next
witness,” she said.

:

Katherine O’Connor was once voted the most
beautiful woman on Earth over forty. “Some compliment,” had been
her reaction to what she had considered a dubious honor.
Nonetheless, there was no doubt that she was still, today at
sixty-two, an amazingly beautiful woman, who obviously never ceased
working out and never deviated from her vegan regimen, or never for
long, at any rate.

She had never held political aspirations,
but in 2024, out of sheer frustration with the incompetence in
Washington she decided to run for one of the California Senate
seats then up for election. To everybody’s, including her own,
surprise, she won and have served her state and country ever since
in such a commonsensical way that she had by now earned the respect
not only from her own republican party by also from the democratic
opposition across the aisle. She was re-elected in 2028.

Jones (who seemed to know everybody,
literally) knew her personally, and so did not have to call in any
particular favors to have her testify. And he had found O’Connor on
the same page as the Treasury Secretary: it was nowhere near rocket
science: if no one buys your products or services, you’ll soon be
out of business and on the street, cap in hand.

Judge Moore winced internally when she saw
O’Connor rise and stride forward to the witness stand. Jones was
putting on a very impressive show, and she was afraid that with
witnesses like this, all telling a similar story, and all of these
stories televised live with some of the best ratings ever, what
chances, really, did Ruth Marten have? Her sense was that this
trial somehow was not fair, but she could not for the life of her
pinpoint any one factor that did not accord with the law. Justice
was being served, but somehow it was being served unfairly.

O’Connor put her hand on the proffered Bible
and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. The
clerk, Bible in hand, returned to her seat.

Jones smiled as he rose and approached the
stand.

“Miss O’Connor, how often are you briefed on
the financial health of your state?”

“As of late, almost hourly,” she answered.
Then added, “By the Governor.”

“And what is your understanding of the
situation?”

“My understanding, as you put it, is that
California sales tax revenue has dropped well over thirty percent
over the last two months, a trend that shows no signs of slowing,
much less stopping.”

“Thirty percent?” said
Jones, stress on
thirty
.

“Thirty percent,” confirmed O’Connor.

“Will California run out of money?” asked
Jones.

“It’s not a question
of
will,
” said
O’Connor. “California
has
run out of money.”

“What?” said Jones, genuinely surprised.

“As of this morning, actually,” said
O’Connor.

“Are you telling this court,” interrupted
Judge Moore, “that the State is bankrupt?”

“No, your honor. The state has other sources
of money, if not revenue. Short term loans have already been
negotiated, and new lines of credit are in place anticipating an
end to this revenue shortfall at end of trial.”

“Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” said
Moore.

“Your honor,” objected Jones.

“Fair enough,” said Moore.

“No,” answered O’Connor. “I doubt there is a
person alive, much less a Californian, that, by end of trial, will
not clearly see what is going on and what needs to be done.”

“And what?” Jones broke in
opportunistically—the Judge herself had opened this door, and could
not now well shut it. “What is clearly going on and what needs to
be done?”

“The State, and the country, is having
crisis of the spirit,” said O’Connor. “An epidemic of the soul.”
Then she paused and looked squarely at Ruth Martin: hard, beautiful
gray eyes meeting curious blue. “This little siren,” she said. “I’m
not sure precisely how she’s doing it, but she has managed to
delude a population into believing that heaven is at hand, that
paradise is here for the taking. All we have to do is let go. All
we have to do is stop spending. All we have to do is stop living.
People, especially young people, swallow this stuff hook and line
and sinker. Don’t even chew.”

“You are talking about the defendant?”
clarified Jones unnecessarily, but for the record.

“Who else?” said O’Connor.

“Answer the question,” said Judge Moore, a
little annoyed by now.

“Yes, your honor. I am talking about the
defendant.”

“And what knowledge do you have to link her
with the alarming drop in State revenue?” said Jones.

“As I mentioned,” said O’Connor. “I’m being
briefed almost hourly these days, and the parallel is all to plain:
our drop in sales tax revenue is a near mirror image of the number
of online viewings of Miss Marten’s lectures: as it rises the revue
drops. A reflection on a mirrored surface.”

“There could be no other reason for this?”
said Jones, knowing—as any good attorney would—the answer to the
question, or he would not have asked it.

“No. This is unprecedented. Never before in
the history of our state. And all indications point in her
direction.”

“The defendant’s direction?” said Jones.

“Yes, in Miss Marten’s direction.”

“So, what should be done?” asked Jones

“In my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“As a Senator of the State of California I
see it as my official duty to ensure that these false promises
cease and that Miss Marten pay for her crimes.”

Judge Moore was too stunned by this answer
to intervene immediately, but then spoke into the silence of the
court: “The defendant has not been found guilty of anything, Miss
O’Connor. I’d appreciate it if you return the Jury Hat to the Jury
and leave it be.”

“Yes, your honor,” said O’Connor.

“And you, Jones, please rein in your
witness,” said Moore.

“Yes, your honor,” said Jones. Smiling
though. The effect had already been created. No stuffing this genie
back into any bottle.

Another silence. Moore asked Jones, “Do you
have any further questions for your witness?”

Jones seemed to deliberate for a moment,
then made up his mind: “No, your honor.”

“And you, Miss Marten?” said the Judge.

“No questions, your honor,” said Ruth
Marten.

:

The first headlines hit the online editions
at about the same time that Judge Moore’s gavel hit wood for the
day: “Open and Shut” was the gist of most of them. As for
television, “Get this woman a lawyer,” was the most repeated
suggestion by the many pundits now busy analyzing the court events
of the day.

Among the major outlets, only The Guardian
still opted to reserve judgment until the trial was actually over,
taking a few none-too-subtle swipes at its competitors. Even so,
The Guardian did suggest that Miss Marten had made the mistake of
her life when she chose to represent herself. Jones, the reporters
and editors maintained, was walking all over her, and her rights to
a fair trial.

Why was Judge Moore allowing this? asked the
pundits. Well, came the learned replies, there was nothing she
could do when the defense never objected. And the defense never
did. In effect, there was no defense.

One reporter at the Cleveland Plain Dealer
drew an apt comparison between this trial and the fifty-six years
ago heavyweight rumble in the jungle between Mohammed Ali and
George Foreman. Ruth Marten was on the ropes simply taking a
near-fatal beating, and doing nothing, nothing to defend herself.
At least Ali had held up his arms to ward off Foreman’s blows. In
trial, Miss Marten was doing nothing, nothing to defend herself.
Not even ducking.

The outcome, opinioned the Plain Dealer, was
clear: Open and Shut.

The only real question asked by the media
this evening was the sentence. The law held that if found guilty,
and if the effects of her acts were found severe enough, she could
in fact face execution for treason. It was a long shot,
obviously—at least according to most.

Not such a long shot at all, according to
the more incendiary talk-show hosts. Not at all. Look at the
country, it teetered on the verge of collapse.

Not entirely true, but it made for excellent
entertainment.

::
132 :: (Pasadena)

In the car back from trial Ananda tried to
recall if he had ever before feared for the Buddha’s life. Yes,
there had been this once. Devadatta’s near-successful attempt on
the Buddha’s life all those many years ago. Yes, he had feared for
his teacher’s life then.

Now he feared for her life again.

Once gathered in the living room (Melissa
refusing to turn on the television, and no one objecting), Ananda,
Abbot White, and George Roth all seemed to look for things to say.
Melissa said something about tea and soon busied herself in the
kitchen. Ruth leaned back and closed her eyes. If she was anxious
about things, she didn’t show it, and as far as Ananda could tell,
there wasn’t even a trace of concern on her features. Things,
apparently, were going according to plan.

Ananda spoke first, “Ruth,” he said.

Ruth opened her eyes, and looked at her
long-time friend. “Yes.”

“Are you aware, truly aware, of the risk
you’re taking?”

“My thought precisely,” said Abbot
White.

“And you?” said Ruth, looking over at George
Roth.

“What about me?” said Roth.

“Am I being foolhardy in your eyes,
too?”

“In the extreme,” said Roth.

“Okay,” said Ruth. “We have been over this
ground, and more than once.”

“But you have yet to ask a single question.
Well, there was the one, or the two,” said Ananda, with thinly
veiled (or not veiled at all) despair.

“Everything his witnesses say is true,” said
Ruth. “There’s nothing there to challenge.”

“Do you realize,” said Roth, and not for the
first time since it had become clear to him that she would more
than likely be found guilty, “that the death penalty might be
sought, and sentenced, if you’re found guilty?”

“Shades of Bruno,” said Ruth.